Gore’s very first day in office.
Inauguration Day
January 20, 2001, was a miserable day, with temperatures barely above freezing and
a steady rain that left the grounds of the Mall that faced the Capitol’s West Front
sodden and muddy. Moreover, the chill in the air was matched by the distinct lack
of festiveness surrounding the event. For the first time, the Secret Service had designated
a presidential inauguration a National Special Security Event. That meant everyone
heading to the Mall had to pass through metal detectors; all handbags, backpacks,
and shopping bags were subjected to searches, causing hourlong waits and chilled,
wet spectators. (“You’d think there was an enemy heading right for the Capitol!” one
frustrated spectator groused.) The chill was just as obvious on the inaugural platform,
where President Bill Clinton and Senator Hillary Clinton exchanged the briefest of
greetings with Al and Tipper Gore as they took their places.
The inauguration went off well enough. Gore’s team congratulated itself for avoiding
a potential controversy after the Reverend Jesse Jackson began not so subtly lobbying
to deliver one of the inaugural prayers. Instead, they chose a far less controversial
figure, the Reverend Jeremiah Wright, from one of Chicago’s most politically potent
African American churches. Reverend Wright brought laughter when he reminded God that
“we march to different drummers,” and then—mid-prayer—mimicked the steps of marching
bands from white and black colleges.
And the inaugural speech itself, written largely by the president himself, reached
for poetry more than prose, as he paid tribute to “the babies, who will someday travel
to distant stars, to those who will teach those children in crowded rooms, to those
who work the fields and feed our bodies, to those who preach the sacred words that
feed our souls … We are in the first moments of a new day, so let the day begin.”
With the ceremony ended, the Gores escorted Bill and Hillary Clinton down the steps
of the Capitol’s East Front, where the Marine One helicopter waited to take the Clintons to Andrews Air Force Base, in Maryland, for
the flight up to their new home in New York.
“The weather seems to be taking a toll on Tipper,” CNN’s Judy Woodruff noted. “She’s
clearly feeling the chill.”
After the briefest of embraces, the Clintons climbed into Marine One; as it lifted off, Tipper turned away from the waiting cameras and muttered to her
husband, “I feel like a huge shadow has just disappeared.”
Not quite.
As the Gores moved into the Capitol for the traditional lunch with the Congress, the
former president and his wife arrived at Andrews, where the 747—no longer Air Force One, since Clinton was no longer president—was waiting. Tradition held that the ex-president
and his spouse would depart quietly, without ceremony, leaving the stage to the new
leader. But ceremony was exactly what was waiting for Clinton: a band, an honor guard,
and a bank of microphones and cameras. By the time the choreographed troop review
was done, it was time for the new president to address the congressional luncheon,
and Gore’s team had prepared a surprise: an announcement that each month he would
go to Capitol Hill to meet with leaders of both parties, as a signal that the chief
executive understood the coequal role of the national legislature.
But as Gore rose to speak, former president Clinton was at his microphone, acknowledging
the cheers of the boisterous crowd.
“You see that sign there that says, PLEASE DON’T GO ? I left the White House, but I’m still here! We’re not going anywhere!” he said,
and launched into a lengthy celebration of his tenure: “Twenty-two million new jobs!
… More college opportunity than ever in history. … Five trillion dollars in surpluses.
… ”
The crowd loved it. The TV cameras loved it. The producers
Inauguration Day
January 20, 2001, was a miserable day, with temperatures barely above freezing and
a steady rain that left the grounds of the Mall that faced the Capitol’s West Front
sodden and muddy. Moreover, the chill in the air was matched by the distinct lack
of festiveness surrounding the event. For the first time, the Secret Service had designated
a presidential inauguration a National Special Security Event. That meant everyone
heading to the Mall had to pass through metal detectors; all handbags, backpacks,
and shopping bags were subjected to searches, causing hourlong waits and chilled,
wet spectators. (“You’d think there was an enemy heading right for the Capitol!” one
frustrated spectator groused.) The chill was just as obvious on the inaugural platform,
where President Bill Clinton and Senator Hillary Clinton exchanged the briefest of
greetings with Al and Tipper Gore as they took their places.
The inauguration went off well enough. Gore’s team congratulated itself for avoiding
a potential controversy after the Reverend Jesse Jackson began not so subtly lobbying
to deliver one of the inaugural prayers. Instead, they chose a far less controversial
figure, the Reverend Jeremiah Wright, from one of Chicago’s most politically potent
African American churches. Reverend Wright brought laughter when he reminded God that
“we march to different drummers,” and then—mid-prayer—mimicked the steps of marching
bands from white and black colleges.
And the inaugural speech itself, written largely by the president himself, reached
for poetry more than prose, as he paid tribute to “the babies, who will someday travel
to distant stars, to those who will teach those children in crowded rooms, to those
who work the fields and feed our bodies, to those who preach the sacred words that
feed our souls … We are in the first moments of a new day, so let the day begin.”
With the ceremony ended, the Gores escorted Bill and Hillary Clinton down the steps
of the Capitol’s East Front, where the Marine One helicopter waited to take the Clintons to Andrews Air Force Base, in Maryland, for
the flight up to their new home in New York.
“The weather seems to be taking a toll on Tipper,” CNN’s Judy Woodruff noted. “She’s
clearly feeling the chill.”
After the briefest of embraces, the Clintons climbed into Marine One; as it lifted off, Tipper turned away from the waiting cameras and muttered to her
husband, “I feel like a huge shadow has just disappeared.”
Not quite.
As the Gores moved into the Capitol for the traditional lunch with the Congress, the
former president and his wife arrived at Andrews, where the 747—no longer Air Force One, since Clinton was no longer president—was waiting. Tradition held that the ex-president
and his spouse would depart quietly, without ceremony, leaving the stage to the new
leader. But ceremony was exactly what was waiting for Clinton: a band, an honor guard,
and a bank of microphones and cameras. By the time the choreographed troop review
was done, it was time for the new president to address the congressional luncheon,
and Gore’s team had prepared a surprise: an announcement that each month he would
go to Capitol Hill to meet with leaders of both parties, as a signal that the chief
executive understood the coequal role of the national legislature.
But as Gore rose to speak, former president Clinton was at his microphone, acknowledging
the cheers of the boisterous crowd.
“You see that sign there that says, PLEASE DON’T GO ? I left the White House, but I’m still here! We’re not going anywhere!” he said,
and launched into a lengthy celebration of his tenure: “Twenty-two million new jobs!
… More college opportunity than ever in history. … Five trillion dollars in surpluses.
… ”
The crowd loved it. The TV cameras loved it. The producers
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